Page 16 of Old Flames

“I didn’t summon anything. I’m saved,” Ayesha said, reminding them of her five-star rating with the Ancient of Days. “I didn’t come here to get unsaved.”

“You might’ve come to the wrong place with the wrong people,” Vicky said.

“I stayed up, chatting with Daphne, who is the right kind of person,” Ayesha said, sinking into the banquette under the window. “I was in bed by ten, but didn’t get much sleep. I never do when I’m away from home. It’s always like this.”

“I have a gummy for that,” Vicky said. “I’ll hook you up.”

Jules sat up and poured herself a generous cup of coffee.

Vicky swiped a croissant off the platter. “I tried to wake you for dinner, but you were dead to the world.”

Jules froze. “You entered the room last night?”

“Yes,” she replied, with a mouth full of fluffy French pastry, “The night manager agreed to let me in because you weren’t answering your phone.”

An honest-to-goodness wellness check. Still, Jules repeated her question. “That was you?”

“Who else?” Vicky said. “I checked your pulse and wiped off your lipstick. You shouldn’t sleep in makeup. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“We agreed it was best to let you sleep,” Ayesha said. “It had been a long day, and you did all the driving. You must’ve been exhausted.”

The idea of Sebastien, Daphne, Matty, and, worst of all, Leo deciding her fate made her uneasy. It was embarrassing. She switched the topic back to the supposed séance. “Which ghost were you summoning?”

“There’s only one—Aurora,” Vicky answered. “According to the night staff, she roams the halls.”

“It’s all nonsense,” Ayesha said. “The staff is paid to play up the myth.”

“I stayed up to read last night and didn’t hear a thing,” Vicky reported happily. “Anyway, time to get going! We’re meeting in the lobby at eight.”

This was surreal. Ayesha was supposed to be the travel mom, keeping them on task and on schedule. What Vicky said next made more sense. “I want to see what Matty has going on under his boxy shirts.”

“You’ve been drooling over that man all night,” Ayesha said. “What about Big Money?”

“I don’t know.” Vicky pursed her lips. “I might have to withdraw my funds from that account.”

“How could you? The man is babysitting your cat!”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” She hopped off the bed. “As for you, Jules, this is the girls’ trip you signed up for. No excuses! Get up, get dressed, and meet us in the lobby at eight, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

With those words, Vicky headed toward the door. Ayesha followed, pausing at the doorway to toss one last look around the room. “Yes,” she said, as if confirming a theory that she’d been mulling over. “This is a converted attic.”

That much was obvious. The narrow stairs leading to the top floor and the sloped ceiling confirmed it. “It has character,” Jules said.

“Daphne says it was originally the servants’ quarters,” Ayesha continued.

Jules took in the small space with new eyes. The blue bedroom was narrow, but bright. The windows framed a view of the garden.

“Eight o’clock,” Vicky reminded her, and then they were gone.

A heavy silence pressed on Jules’s shoulders. She wanted nothing more than to remain in the attic, not meet up with the others, not make small talk or marvel at coral. However, Vicky had a point. This was the girls’ trip she’d signed up for. She loved snorkeling and wanted to feel the sun on her face. So why was it such a struggle to get out of bed?

With great effort, she kicked back the sheets and made her way to the wardrobe. Made of carved wood and inlaid glass, it was far too fancy to store her random collection of clothes, a mix of fast fashion and designer pieces picked up at the vintage shops in Brooklyn. She selected a string bikini and classic denim cutoffs, flip-flops, and dark sunglasses to hide the dread in her eyes.

Jules was the first to arrive at the lobby. Her gaze followed the wood-trimmed walls to the high coffered ceiling as if seeing the details for the first time. Perhaps Ayesha was right. The trip had drained her. Maybe all she needed was a good night’s sleep. Already she was feeling better. She wandered over to the portrait of the old shipbuilder, even leaned closer to examine his wax paper skin, when the man who showed up at the top of the grand staircase instantly stole her attention. There he was, Leo James White, in a white T-shirt, navy shorts, and wayfarer glasses, a backpack tossed casually over his shoulder. He looked good, healthy and tan, his mop of chestnut hair in rumpled waves. Frankly, he looked better than ten years earlier. The boyish face had hardened some, his jaw tighter, his build sturdier, and his overall manner more assured.

He spotted her and paused as if weighing his options. Then slowly, deliberately, he walked down the stairs, crossed the lobby and joined her in staring at the portrait. Jules had no option but to stand there, glued in place.

“He’s not our ghost,” he said quietly.